Shall I Compare Thee to a Shakespearean Sonnet130?
by Anguis
Summary: *on hiatus, possibly permanent*“Hermione had been different...yet too much the same.” Viktor Krum needs someone a little more out of the ordinary. Millicent needs someone to appreciate her for who she is. VKMB Ch. 2: occurrences, obfuscation, & osculation
1. Default Chapter

Key words: Viktor Krum Hermione Granger Millicent Bulstrode

Disclaimer: JK Rowling (and those lucky companies that she has bestowed the rights upon, including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Warner Brothers) owns the characters and most of the setting, although I've manipulated things a bit.

Author's notes: For the most part, I like Hermione. However, Emma-Watson-Hermione really grates on my nerves. The negative aspect of the Hermione of this storey was inspired by her.

I am purposefully chopping this up into bite-sized chapters. I find it easier to work out plot blocks in little bits, so I will hopefully be able to post more often.

The import of the title is not evident in this first chapter (it does NOT refer to Hermione). In Chapter 2's author notes I'll post the poem, and, hopefully, the reference will become obvious.

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Shall I Compare Thee to a Shakespearean Sonnet . . . 130?

Ch. 1

Hermione had been different. She was one of the few girls who did not pursue him, did not fawn over him, did not simper at his every comment. She could look him in the eyes without blushing and engage him in a lively debate about Nikola Indjov. She did not mimic his maladroit mispronunciations and ungainly gait to invidious, sniggering companions when she did not see him in the shadows.

Yes, Hermione had been different, yet too much the same. She never mocked his lack of poise, but she made him feel clumsy, oafish, and awkward. The long, slim lines of her body drew admiring gazes from other wizards, but he could not fathom their attraction.

Viktor Krum was a man–a man of strong passions and fierce love, but he had to restrain them for fear he might injure the fragile wisp of a girl. Hermione had a courageous heart and a strong mind, but her delicate constitution condemned her. She would not survive his world. With great regret he had told her this, nearly a year after their first stumbling conversation in Hogwarts' library. She, too, had recognised the dissimilitude between them, and–ever practical–had accepted the termination of their relationship as lamentable, but inevitable.

***

A little more than a year after relinquishing his monopoly on Hermione's favours, he had flouted a personal invitation from Voldemort in favour of Quidditch practice, so the Dark Lord had ensured that Viktor would not play Quidditch again. Two Death Eaters had greeted him with dubious hospitality in his study that night, leaving him with shattered knuckles and both knees wrenched irreparably out of kilter. As his mangled hands prevented him from wielding his wand properly, he had managed to clamp it between his wrists long enough to Apparate to the nearest hospital. (Subsequently, he was chided time and again for almost splinching himself, although no one was able to propose any other way he could have reached the hospital.) Utilising both magic and Muggle techniques, the doctors repaired Viktor's hands passably well but were unable to extricate all of the strands of Dark magic that had been expertly entangled in the tendons and ligaments of his knees. These painful, permanent residues incapacitated him to such an extent that he could barely hobble, much less mount a broomstick.

When it became apparent that Viktor could no longer fly, the Vratsa Vultures regretfully dismissed him, knowing that they had lost their only hope of being internationally competitive anytime in the near future. Andrei Vasiliev, the team's captain and unofficial financial manager, offered Viktor a desk job as an assistant to the Vultures' public relations director, but pride prevented him from accepting that well-intentioned, yet thoroughly abasing handout. Besides, it would have been too frustrating to watch his former teammates swoop and soar while his own body shackled him more securely to the stands than any of the iron fetters in his father's dungeon could have.

Despite his awkwardness, or perhaps, in part, because of it, Viktor was a fiercely proud, intensely reserved, publicly undemonstrative person. Thus, he shared his anger and grief with no one: not his parents, his (now former) teammates, nor the few schoolmates that had valiantly endured his brooding mien even after the forced proximity of classes no longer compelled them to. Upon arriving home from the uncomfortably polite meeting with Vasiliev, Viktor had Apparated to a secluded outcropping on the slopes of Moussala with his Velox XV. His carefully veiled fury erupted as he smashed the broom against the unyielding crag. Determined to finish the job, he did not notice the splinters driving into his hands nor the rocks abrading his palms as he battered the pieces of his once impeccably maintained broom into kindling. A vicious Incendio completed the destruction.

When the reports of his injury and subsequent dismissal reached the papers, Quidditch fans from around the world mourned the loss of such talent, but after a few days of eluding rabid reporters, Viktor was mostly forgotten by the world, his country, and, to a certain extent, family. Even Hermione's infrequent, politely friendly letters gradually ceased. He plummeted from the heady heights of fame to the despondent depths of anonymity.

As a crippled, former athlete at the age of 20, schooled at an institution whose reputation for diablerie preceded its alumnae everywhere they went, Viktor did not expect that finding employment would be easy, particularly during the recession that had resulted from Voldemort's increasingly audacious, increasingly international displays of power. For as long as he could remember, the option of becoming an Auror–should he fail at Quidditch–had immured itself in the deepest recesses of his mind. No one else was aware of this desire, as his family, instructors, and teammates simply had not acknowledged failure as a possibility for Viktor. Now that Quidditch no longer occupied his waking hours, the idea asserted itself authoritatively and refused to be dismissed, despite Viktor's vigorous misgivings. As soon as he could prepare the necessary documents, he departed for the Offensive Department of the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic in Sofia. Viktor's hopes quickly withered as the Russian wizard who examined applications condescendingly explained that an Auror needed two qualities: able-bodiedness and dedication to the eradication of Dark magic, neither of which could be reasonably attributed to him.

His assistance having been rejected by his own country, Viktor applied for British Indeterminate Visitor papers. He vaguely remembered from a conversation with Hermione (so long ago, it seemed) that the underground forces in Great Britain were more tolerant of non-conventional aid than any government agency in the world, since they could not afford to refuse any shred of talent or offer of support, however meagre it may be.


	2. Ch 2

Key words: Viktor Krum Hermione Granger Millicent Bulstrode

Spoilers: SS/PP, CoS, PoA, GoF, possibly FB, perhaps QttA, and maybe OotP in future chapters

Disclaimer: JK Rowling (and those lucky companies upon whom she has bestowed the rights, including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Warner Brothers) owns the characters and most of the setting, although I've manipulated things a bit.

The version of the text of the sonnet in the author's notes is from my high school Brit Lit text: _Adventures in English Literature_ (Pegasus Ed.) from Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. If I'm missing any necessary component from my disclaimer, please notify me immediately.

Author's notes: By the end of this chapter, the reference in the title should be evident. Here is the complete poem.

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Shakespeare's Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,

Coral is far more red than her lips' red.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,

If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

In some perfumes there is more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound.

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

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Shall I Compare Thee to a Shakespearean Sonnet . . . 130?

Ch. 2

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His assistance having been rejected by his own country, Viktor applied for British Indeterminate Visitor papers. He vaguely remembered from a conversation with Hermione (so long ago, it seemed) that the underground forces in Great Britain were more tolerant of non-conventional aid than any government agency in the world, since they could not afford to refuse any shred of talent or offer of support, however meagre it may be.

***3 years later***

Viktor Krum bobbed through the caliginous depths of Knockturn Alley, absorbed in his morose contemplation of the events of the turbulent past five years. The late hour had enticed the most unpleasant sorts of magical beings out of their lairs to slink in and out of the black-mouthed alleys riddling the unsavoury thoroughfare. Skeletal, hollow-cheeked witches in short, black leather robes peddled their virtually non-existent wares for a few galleons; goblins and warlocks discreetly exchanged suspicious substances under the covert cover of their cloaks; and dark, furtive phantasms continually receded from the edges of his vision. Suddenly, Viktor noticed that the denizens of the lurid lane had dissipated. Disconcerted, he limped into the closest alley and collided with a large, soft body. It belonged to a black-robed woman slightly shorter than he, but considerably wider. The part of her face that was not shrouded in her cloak's voluminous hood seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not recall any previous encounter with the young witch.

Before Viktor could apologise for his clumsiness, she seized his left hand in the iron grip of her right, turned her back to him, and tucked his arm between her elbow and her bosom. Lacing her fingers between his, and using her left hand as an excruciating vise, she pressed their wrists together. Her pulse throbbed solidly against his. After several moments in this position, she exclaimed gutturally and threw down his arm.

"Who are you? Where are you from, and what are you doing here?" she interrogated brusquely, her eyes constantly scanning the shadows behind him.

Bewildered by the perplexing accostal, Viktor gaped at the young woman. "I haff no idea vhat you are meaning," he protested, although he certainly could conjecture. The recently developed Partingham Procedure was the most efficient means of determining whether a person bore a recently summoned Dark Mark, and one did not wander down Knockturn Alley for a leisurely midnight stroll.

As the witch was about to clarify herself, her eyes fixed on a dark figure that was stealthily approaching them. She pulled Viktor into an abandoned storefront (by its scent of musty secret-rooms and fear, overlaid with hints of burnt flesh and damp earth, he recognised it as a former Dark Arts pawn shop). In the darkness, he stumbled over a mouldering pile of debris. His knees collapsed under the strain of trying to counterbalance his forward momentum, so he toppled into the woman, sending a discarded tin clattering onto the floor.

The witch had tried to brace herself for the impending impact. Unfortunately, she did so by planting her left foot on a carved dragon bone. She lost her footing, and they both sprawled on the dusty floor.

Viktor's landing was soft and most certainly not unpleasant, although he doubted that she could say the same. The woman who had cushioned his fall lay so still that he worried he had crushed her. She quietly assured him that she was alright, although a bruise was beginning to crawl up her cheek where his chin had concussed it.

As he attempted to roll off her, she dug her fingers into his back and pulled him more tightly into the heat of her body, enveloping him in her lush contours, his cloak fanned out over their bodies. Just as the disturbed dust motes were beginning to settle, a cramp in his left knee prompted a reflexive spasm that thrust his hips into the pliant expanse of her belly. For an instant, his mind ignored all the distractions of the bizarre situation, unable to focus on anything but the extraordinary woman beneath him.

"Stay," she murmured huskily.

When he was still a famed Quidditch player, Viktor had been propositioned many times. However, never had the invitation seemed so genuine, and never had he been so tempted. Just as he covered her lips with his, an ominous shadow unfurled in the wan light that filtered through the display window. Even without looking, Viktor could feel the penetrating gaze from the faceless mask. Knowing that their immediate future depended on a persuasive performance, he redoubled his efforts, vehemently banishing his customary restraint in a muddle of passion and self-preservation. His land-bound awkwardness receded, replaced by an artless grace he had known only when astride his broom.

Apparently convinced by their fervent osculation, the silhouette receded. A few seconds later, the witch withdrew from his fierce embrace, gasping slightly for breath (although whether out of relief for surviving the encounter or from the kiss, Viktor could not tell). Her startled eyes had softened momentarily, but she soon recollected herself and quickly shifted Viktor onto the floor next to her. This painful jolt dampened his burgeoning ardour and reminded him of his precarious predicament. With a tug on an empty display case she scrambled to her feet and then reached down to help him stand.

Once again, she peremptorily grabbed his wrist and began to lead him, leaving him with no choice but to follow. She pulled him out the back door of the shop into a smaller, more odiferous alley and then into a ramshackle building. Once inside, Viktor had to grapple with the grasping, tangled cords of no less than seven powerful wards that guarded the doorway to a cozy little flat. He recognised five of them from his Dark Defense Tactics classes at Durmstrang as he floundered in the invisible snares, caught as securely as a fly in a spider's web. The witch, whose uninhibited passage identified her as their caster, stabbed her wand into the coil of wards just to the left of Viktor's ear. They hissed regretfully and regurgitated Viktor forcefully into the room.

After locking the door with two Muggle and five magical locks, she haphazardly dumped a kettle into the fire to boil and offered him a sturdy chair. She dropped heavily into its mate and proffered her hand for a belated introduction.

"By the way, my name's Millicent Bulstrode."


End file.
